


Substitution

by WhosInTheAttic



Series: Building Bridges Across the Void [1]
Category: Blackpool, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dimension Travel, F/M, Light Bondage, Mirror Sex, PWP, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhosInTheAttic/pseuds/WhosInTheAttic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Tyler continues to cross dimensions. After the events of <i>Turn Left</i> she unexpectedly finds herself in Kendal, where she finds some solace in the achingly familiar arms of Inspector Carlisle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitution

She’s handcuffed and bent over the table, rough and eager hands tugging at her unbuttoned trousers, sliding them—with her knickers—down over her bum. She’s wet (so wet!) and ready for his next move; he plunges two fingers into her and starts thrusting them in and out of her warmth. After several minutes of his fingers curling against her slick walls, setting her whole body on edge, she groans in pleasure and cries out, “Fuck me! Just fuck me _now_!” and she barely recognizes it as her own voice. 

His fingers disappear for a moment and she can hear the rustle of fabric and the rasp of a zip. When she turns to look, his hand presses into her back, forcing her down against the table; oh God she needs this—she _wants_ it—and she hates herself for it. The duality of it makes her want it even more, and when she feels the tip of his cock against her folds, she whimpers. She bites her lip and braces herself for him to fill her, but instead he backs away again. She growls in frustration, only to feel him tug her trousers further down her legs, where they slip to pool at her ankles. With a knee, he spreads her legs wider and re-positions himself, once again teasingly outside her entrance. “Please,” she moans.

With one even thrust, he’s inside her, “Oh, you are incredible,” he groans, his Scottish accent growing thicker than it had been during the interrogation. “So tight,” he growled as he set a punishing rhythm. She has no leverage, but she’s trying to push back against him, do anything she can to show how badly she wants this— _needs_ this—needs _him._

She doesn’t _want_ him—she wants a man universes away, with the same brown eyes (though the eyes of the man fucking her lack the depth of over 900 years’ experience and don’t carry the same sorrow) and the same smug, aren’t-I-impressive smirk—but she settles for this very-human detective, who—by some cruel sense of irony—has the same face as the man she loves. He’s rocking his hips into hers over and over again, and before she knows it, Rose is choking out a ragged, “More!” and he complies with a shuddering groan of his own. Rose turns her head and realizes that, while she is sprawled too low to be reflected in the glass of the one-way mirror, she can easily see the upper half of the man fucking her.

One hand is pressing her down against the table, and the other is gripping her hip. She knows his trousers are around his knees because she can feel his bare legs against the backs of hers. There’s sweat on his brow, and the way he bites that familiar lower lip makes her involuntarily tighten around his cock; but Rose can’t help but focus on his jumper, and if she squints _just so_ she can pretend his long coat is made of leather. She groans and presses her forehead to the cool steel of the table, listening to the wet sounds of his body fitting into hers.

He’s fucking her so hard he’s amazed she hasn’t broken—literally and figuratively—and he can’t even make sense of the events that led up to this. He’s not this kind of man; he _knows_ he’s not, yet he has her now, right where he’s wanted her since he first clapped eyes on her. He was drawn to her down to his very marrow; a feeling unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and she seemed to feel it too. The moment she spotted him, she looked into him, _through_ him, as if she saw something in him that he didn’t even realize was there. It was the kind of look that made a man _better—_ or at least _want_ to be—and now he had her bent over, fucking her for all he was worth, his cock engulfed in her heat, his balls slapping against the swollen lips of her pussy. He wants her in every way, wants her to look at him again with that _way_ she has.

He slows to a halt, and Rose whimpers in protest. Peter reaches into the pocket of his coat to retrieve the handcuff key, and once he has a good hold on it, he thrusts again—hard—into her tight warmth and stays there, his hips forcing hers against the table. He deftly unlocks her wrists, and then withdraws from her body, taking her by the elbow and spinning her around to face him. He grabs her bum and lifts her onto the table, and she kicks her trousers off her ankles. He pulls at his coat and lets it fall to the floor, and Rose is already reaching for his cock; she’s stroking it, and curving one hand around his bare arse to encourage him closer.

Rose perches herself on the edge of the table, and she’s trying hard to reclaim him; she needs him inside her again before the rush of all this wears off and she’s left to _think_ rather than just _feel_. Just when she thinks he’s bored of her, he plunges into her once more. She cries out wordlessly, and brings her hands to his hair—it’s longer and it doesn’t stick up in just that way—but it feels fantastic. He’s bending over the table now, urging her back against the cold tabletop, his mouth chasing hers.

She’s hesitant at first, but as he leans in, she smells him—oh God, she smells _him—_ and suddenly she’s leaning forward, eager to taste his mouth. This impostor doesn’t smell of Time and stardust, but the rest of it is there; some unidentifiable thing that makes her think of autumn, and something that tickles at her nose like cinnamon. The feeling of him thrusting into her combined with the smell of him surrounding her, his hair in her hands, and now his hand slipping between them, his thumb rubbing her aching clit; it’s all too much. She groans and keens beneath him, pulling his mouth even more firmly to hers, nipping at sucking at Peter's lips almost frantically between bouts of his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth, roughly pillaging the moist curves.

He breaks the kiss, and presses his cheek to hers, “I could fuck your cunt for the rest of my life,” he cried out, “Fuck. Oh fucking _fuck.”_ is mouth is over hers again, and she imagines her Doctor putting on that accent now, just as he had in 1879, and as she moans into his mouth, he breaks the kiss once more. 

Peter pulls back to look at her, dying to see _that_ look again, even if only one more time. And there it is, as she studies his face, looks into his eyes, then away again; looks at his mouth and then...o _h. Oh._ He can feel her muscles squeezing his cock and now she’s crying out, and he feels his balls tighten as his rhythm falters; his head is swimming, and he’s sure he’s heard her call out “Doctor!” but he’s too busy not-thinking, and forgetting that he’d meant to pull out when he came, but now he’s coming and it’s too late; he’s emptying himself into her with every crashing wave of his orgasm. Something primal deep down in his belly is sickly satisfied by the fact that he’s just filled this young blonde with his cum and all the while he’s been fucking her, she’s been begging to be fucked, moaning and writhing helplessly beneath him.

When his orgasm subsides, he collapses breathlessly on top of her, bent over the table, and she wraps her legs around him, hooking her ankles together at the small of his back. She’s clutching him to herself and buries her face in his shoulder. For the first time, it feels tender, this thing between them. She clutches him for a long moment, before taking a deep breath, and almost inaudibly, she whispers against his neck, “I miss you.” He suddenly feels like he’s done something wrong, and he turns his head to press a kiss to her cheek. 

“Can I ‘ave my trousers back now?” she says quietly, before he can speak.

Peter withdraws his softened cock from her body and pulls his pants up, tucking himself away before stooping to pick up Rose’s trousers. He hands them to her, and she stands to put them on before slipping her shoes on. Peter turns to retrieve his jacket and Rose sees her chance.

She can’t bear to face this stranger in the aftermath; she fears the moment he turns around, and—all the passion gone—she’ll see the man he really is, rather than the man she wanted to see. She hadn’t been with any man since she met the Doctor, and she was perfectly happy to ignore her needs—forever, if it turned out he didn’t want her in that way—but the universe she’d just left…

She tries not to remember that she’d seen him dead, _truly dead,_ drowned beneath the raging waters of the Thames. The irony of landing in this universe next, and this man being the first to give her notice was not lost on her. She allowed herself to be swept up in an illusion—hell, she’d built it for herself. She wonders if the Doctor could love the woman she’s become, wonders exactly _what_ she’s become that she’s resorted to this. She doesn’t want to see the answer in the Inspector's eyes.

She scoops the fully-charged dimension cannon from the chair beside her, and quickly presses the button. The air around her bends, and when Peter turns back, she’s gone, and all that remains is a smell in the air that he likens to raspberries and sulfur.


End file.
